


There’s a Lack of Color Here

by INMH



Category: The Giver Series - Lois Lowry, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Crossover, Drama, It's not explicit though, M/M, Mild Blood, Romance, Tragedy, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 18:02:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2279409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INMH/pseuds/INMH
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas wants to make him understand, but it’s not as easy as it sounds. [The Maze Runner/The Giver Fusion, Receiver!Thomas.]</p><p>(WARNING: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH. Apparently the website is goofing somehow and the tag isn't showing up for some people)</p>
            </blockquote>





	There’s a Lack of Color Here

**Author's Note:**

> Consider this something of a hybrid between book and movie-verse. Book-verse in the sense that there are no daily injections (just the pills for the stirrings and pain and whatnot), and movie-verse in the sense that Thomas and company are seventeen/eighteen/thereabouts when they receive their assignments.

  
“I am certain that you will make us all very proud of you,” The Elder says when he is named Receiver.  
  
Thomas isn’t so certain, but he can see his parents and his sister and his friends looking at him with smiles, and so he keeps his peace.  
  
[---]  
  
“Oh, come on!”  
  
“I can’t!” Thomas grins, pushing his bicycle along. “I’m not allowed to talk about my training.”  
  
Minho rolls his eyes. “Can you at least tell us what the _rules_ governing your training are?”  
  
Thomas continues to smile, but remembers with no small amount of concern the last rule: “ _You may lie_.”  
  
“No, I can’t. Can you?”  
  
“Certainly!” Teresa says, pushing her hair over her shoulder. “But the rules for operating in the Nurturing Center are rather predictable, aren’t they? I’m not permitted to know their intended names, or address them by them if I do-”  
  
“-you’re not allowed to switch their assigned beds to fool the other Nurturers, you’re not allowed to suggest a new child be released if they get too cranky,” Minho ticks them off on his fingers, and they all laugh.  
  
Thomas hopes that they won’t drift apart, won’t lose Teresa’s strength, or Alby’s guidance, or Newt’s natural ability to pull them all together.  
  
Above all else, though, he hopes that he does not lose Minho’s laughter. Thomas isn’t sure what he would do without that.  
  
[---]  
  
“Come in, Thomas,” The (now former) Receiver is waiting for him when he arrives. She is not too old, not nearly old enough to be nearing Release, but she is likely older than his mother and father. She looks wise, and Thomas is put at ease.  
  
The woman rolls up her sleeves.  
  
“Let’s begin.”  
  
[---]  
  
“You seem different,” Minho says, and it’s a comment venturing on rudeness, but Thomas doesn’t care.  
  
He _feels_ different now.  
  
[---]  
  
Thomas feels amazing.  
  
It feels as though the world and its history has been turned into liquid and is being fed into his veins through an IV. He sees colors, hears music, feels sunlight and strong winds and _rain_.  
  
It is no wonder to him why their society had become so insistent on specificity, simplifying what one felt and putting it into precise language- the things Thomas feels, they are too intense, too _overwhelming_ to describe. He doesn’t have the language for this, nothing that would do it justice.  
  
“This is great,” he says to the Receiver, “This doesn’t hurt at all.”  
  
Her smile is sad, and a little bitter even. “We’re not that far in at all, Thomas. There’s much more than this to see.”  
  
[---]  
  
Thomas has always had a problem with touching.  
  
It is not necessarily against the rules to touch someone, so much as it is considered rude. Only touching amongst family units is considered appropriate; touching among friends, even ones that have known each other since their days in the Nurturing Center, is not. Children who touch one another, who push or hold hands or lean against one another are lightly reprimanded.  
  
But this is one rule that Thomas has broken for a very long time, repeatedly, and he just can’t _help_ it. There is something about physical contact that attracts him, makes him linger a little closer to his friends, makes him forget that he’s not allowed to touch Newt’s shoulder or touch Teresa’s hand.  
  
It’s an urge like an itch on his back, one that he can’t reach. He wants to be close to people. And maybe he’s odd, maybe he’s different, but he honestly can’t understand why anyone would think it’s _rude._  
  
[---]  
  
It wasn’t so in the past.  
  
Thomas aches for the past, a time when physical contact was not only all right, but _encouraged_. Friends embraced. They held hands. Sometimes they even pressed their lips together, something that Thomas can’t recall ever seeing anyone in his community do. It isn’t until the memory finishes that he even has a name for it.  
  
“Kissing,” he says, and there’s a funny feeling in his chest, one that belongs to the original owner of that memory. Thomas feels his face heating. “What was that?”  
  
“An act of love,” The Receiver sighs. “Often between lovers, or family members. Occasionally between friends. Have I lost you?”  
  
Thomas must look as confused as he feels.  
  
“Love.” He repeats.  
  
“Yes, love. A feeling of very strong affection towards another. There is love between family members, love between friends, and love between spouses.”  
  
 _Love_. That must be what he feels in his chest. It sounds right. It _feels_ right.  
  
“You also said ‘lover’. What is a ‘lover’?”  
  
He gets a longer sigh for that question. “That… Is for a later lesson.”  
  
[---]  
  
The feeling never quite leaves.  
  
During their recreation period that day, Thomas sits quietly off to the side and watches as Minho, Alby, Gally, and Jeff kick a ball back and forth.  
  
He meditates on the feeling in his chest. It has lingered with him for the past week. It does not feel bad, but it also doesn’t feel normal. Thomas feels like he should be… _Doing_ something with it. He doesn’t know what. It’s like an animal, like the ones in the memories, begging to be fed. He wants something, but he isn’t sure what.  
  
Suddenly, he is aware of tense words being exchanged nearby. Gally and Minho are arguing over something to do with their game, and Alby is trying to get a word in edgewise to calm them both down. It doesn’t work- Gally leans forward and says, “And what are you going to do about it?”  
  
Minho frowns and steps forward, fists clenched.  
  
In that moment, Thomas experiences a relatively minor panic (one he might have deemed a serious panic before experiencing what such a thing _really_ felt like). Harming another member of the Community was utterly forbidden; Minho had broken this rule before, two years ago, also with Gally. They had a history of dislike for one another, and both were a little more on the impulsive side than most people would prefer.  
  
Thomas gets up and hurries over.  
  
“What am I going to do? I’m going to-”  
  
“Okay, calm down-”  
  
“Minho, stop, don’t-”  
  
Without thinking, Thomas grabs Minho’s right hand- it was the one he had swung with last time. Inexplicably, the feeling in his chest expands; Thomas can feel himself blushing (now that was unusual, he had only ever done that when embarrassed before, never when coming into contact with others). He is hyperaware of his proximity to Minho, but that had never bothered him previously, so why is it evoking such a strong reaction now?  
  
“Thomas?” Minho says, quietly, and twitches his hand- which Thomas is still holding. Gally has backed off, and Minho looks calm enough not to start (or continue, as it were) an altercation with him. He does not seem to be especially disturbed by the fact that Thomas is touching him, but there are people looking. Thomas quickly lets go.  
  
“I apologize.”  
  
“I accept your apology.”  
  
[---]  
  
It takes time for that feeling to die down a bit.  
  
And in that time, Thomas swears that the colors he’s starting to see in the world are just a little brighter than before.  
  
[---]  
  
The Receiver clasps her hands together. She looks stiff.  
  
“Today, Thomas… I believe it’s time you saw something on a different level of what you’ve already experienced.”  
  
Thomas blinks. “What do you mean?”  
  
The Receiver shuts her eyes for a minute or two, and then opens them again. “It’s time that you experience something… Particularly unpleasant. I have held off for what I believe to be a prudent amount of time, and now I believe it is time that you saw how unpleasant the world used to be.”  
  
That sounds a bit foreboding, but Thomas knows she is right. To have and give wisdom to the rest of the community, he can’t simply see all of the good things in the world, right?  
  
The Receiver puts her bare hands on his shoulders, and the memory begins to unfold.  
  
[---]  
  
The pain is bad.  
  
It is hands-down the worst that Thomas has ever felt, even as far as what he’s experienced in other memories. His neck is sore, his knee is throbbing, and his shoulder- his shoulder is so bad that he doesn’t have a word to describe it.  
  
And he doesn’t have to, because the memory provides some for him: _It’s on **fire**._  
  
Thomas is sitting in a car. He’s seen them in other memories, and can therefore understand the scope of the damage that has occurred to this one: The hood is scrunched up, the windshield is shattered and there is broken glass all over his lap. But there is no steering-wheel in front of him; Thomas is the passenger.  
  
He turns and looks to his left.  
  
Beside him is a young woman with dark hair and deep blue eyes. But those eyes are glassy and unfocused, and she is slumped over the steering-wheel, motionless. She can’t be much older than Thomas, but she is not breathing.  
  
Thomas feels nauseous. “Madison?” He says, and his voice is that of the boy whose memory he’s experiencing. Words flash in his head:  
  
 _Little sister. Hurt. Blood. Not moving. Not breathing._  
  
 _Dead._  
  
“ _Madison_ _!_ ”  
  
The feeling in his chest, the one that might be love, is still there, but now it mixes with something horrible, something that makes Thomas want to scream and cry and beg some nameless force to bring her back.  
  
 _Death._  
  
 _Grief._  
  
 _Loss._  
  
She can’t be gone. She _can’t._ He wants her back, wants to hold her and laugh with her and tell her he loves her, but he is never going to do that because Madison is-  
  
Thomas screams.  
  
[---]  
  
He springs out of the chair, accidentally kicking it over in the process.  
  
Thomas’s face is wet, and his eyes- they burn, burn to a much lesser extent than his shoulder had in that memory, but burn nevertheless. His shoulder, knee, and neck still hurt, though the sensation is not as extreme as it was before.  
  
“Thomas-”  
  
The Receiver steps towards him, a hand outstretched, and he sees that same grief reflected in her eyes. How she could have held that memory within herself all of this time without screaming as he did was unbelievable. It’s too much. It’s too horrible. It’s too painful to bear.  
  
Thomas runs out.  
  
[---]  
  
He can’t breathe. He can’t _breathe_ , and his vision blurs and he can barely see where he’s going, only hopes that he’s going at least in the general direction of his dwelling, can hear himself walking past others, can feel their stares, and he hopes that he doesn’t suffocate before he can get-  
  
Thomas bumps into something, realizes that it’s a bike, and nearly goes crashing to the ground. He can hear curious and concerned murmurs of people nearby, but maybe his position as the new Receiver has made them hesitant in inquiring after him. Even if they did, Thomas isn’t certain that he would be able to give them an answer. He keeps going and going until he thinks he can recognize where he is and just falls onto the grass, behind some bushes.  
  
He tries to get himself under control, tries to get the proper amount of oxygen circulating through his lungs again, but it’s easier said than done. All he can see is that girl, and the blood, and that feeling that’s like being crushed and ripped apart all at the same time, and it’s all Thomas can do not to start _screaming_ again-  
  
“Thomas?”  
  
It’s Minho. Even with his vision blurry and his heart pounding in his ears, Thomas would know him anywhere.  
  
“What happened? Why are you crying? Are you injured?”  
  
It’s too many questions, all at once, and Thomas can’t think clearly enough to even begin to think of how to answer them- never mind the fact that he still can’t breathe properly. He draws his knees up to his chest and shakes his head because no, he can’t answer Minho right now, probably couldn’t even if he was able to speak.  
  
“Thomas? Please talk to me. Please?” Thomas has never heard Minho _plead_ before, and it’s a strange and slightly frightening thing given just how confident the older boy is. This isn’t normal, and all it does is make things more confusing, somehow makes that awful feeling in his chest twist in a way it hadn’t before-  
  
Unexpectedly, Thomas feels a hand on his shoulder.  
  
 _That_ is even less normal, because touching others is generally an easy rule not to break (for everyone except himself) and even Minho, who has been known to bend and break some rules in the past, has never broken this one.  
  
The bad, crushing feeling recedes somewhat.  
  
The good one, the one Thomas thinks is love, comes back.  
  
And without thinking, Thomas turns and wraps his arms around Minho in a tight, tight hug.  
  
[---]  
  
After so many memories of hugs and kisses and hand-holding and gentle touches to arms and shoulders, Thomas is more confused than ever how touching could now be construed as _rude_.  
  
“Why is that?” He had asked the Receiver.  
  
She had thought about that for a good, long moment before saying, “Touching can aid in creating bonds between people,” She had explained. “Those attachments can awaken deep emotions in people. Those emotions can get us into trouble.”  
  
Thomas knew that by then. He had already seen his fair share of memories where people did less-than-wise things because they were driven by deep anger, or fear. Love, he had supposed, could do the same: Cause conflict, divide loyalties, make one lose sight of their priorities in life.  
  
“I see,” He had said, and he did and does understand.  
  
But in a way, he also doesn’t.  
  
[---]  
  
Minho does not push him away.  
  
In fact, he returns the embrace.  
  
And slowly, Thomas starts to calm down. His breathing returns to normal, his vision clears, and eventually all he can hear is his own and Minho’s breaths.  
  
Luckily, the bushes that Thomas fell behind were high enough that no one could see them, and to the side of a building that is lined by a path that does not usually host a great number of people.  
  
Thomas’s shoulder still hurts, and now that the rush has worn off, it’s throbbing with a vengeance. He winces as he slowly pulls back from the embrace and faces Minho.  
  
“I apologize.” Thomas says quietly. “For touching you, and for alarming you.” By now he feels silly for even having to apologizing for the former, but certainly regrets the latter; he does not want to frighten Minho, or make him uncomfortable.  
  
“I accept your apology.” Minho replies, tone bordering on dismissive. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”  
  
“I- no. Not… Not technically.” Being ‘hurt’ emotionally has become a somewhat distant concept for their society. One could be ‘rude’, one could metaphorically or literally harm someone else by their words or actions, but having one’s _feelings_ hurt… Truly offending someone in a meaningful way is not very common. Thomas doesn’t know how to explain it.  
  
“You winced.”  
  
“My shoulder hurts. From- From when I hit the bike.” Thomas fumbles with that explanation, and it’s obvious.  
  
“You didn’t hit the bike with your shoulder, you hit it with your leg.” Minho is frowning now. “You’re lying to me.”  
  
“I am. I apologize. But I can’t… I can’t tell you how I got this. It’s against the rules I was given when I became the Receiver.”  
  
“But lying isn’t?” Minho presses.  
  
Thomas gives a long, slow sigh, and shuts his eyes. “I am allowed to lie.” He says softly. “But I apologize for lying to you. I didn’t know how else to explain.”  
  
Minho is quiet for a moment. Then he says, “I accept your apology.” But he does sound upset, and upset enough to make Thomas feel very, very guilty. “Please don’t lie to me again.”  
  
“I won’t.”  
  
And he means it.  
  
[---]  
  
“You’re back.”  
  
Thomas nods, quietly shutting the door behind him. “I apologize for leaving like that.” He says.  
  
The Receiver nods. “If there is anyone who can understand why you ran out, Thomas, it’s me.”  
  
He realizes just how true that is, remembers wondering over how she had managed to keep such an awful thing inside of her mind for so long.  
  
It also makes Thomas dread what else she might be intending to transfer to him in the near future.  
  
He sits down in a chair across from the Receiver’s, and she folds her hands on her lap as she faces him. “Before... _this_ ,” She waves her hand vaguely, and Thomas assumes that she is referring to their community, their world, “There were many theories and doctrines in the world that tried to explain why we experience suffering. Buddhism was one of them.”  
  
“That’s a…” Thomas searches for the word, but it escapes him.  
  
“Religion.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
“Yes, it was a religion. Its founder and followers believed that through the suffering one experiences in life, one can reach enlightenment.” She leans forward. “In suffering, we gain experience. Insight. Wisdom. Perspective. With these things, one may learn to combat future suffering for themselves and others.”  
  
“And that’s what we do, right?” Thomas asks.  
  
“For the good of the community, yes. We experience the good and bad of the world, and then we advise them on how best to deal with unexpected problems that may arise based on those experiences.”  
  
Thomas is quiet for a moment. “Why can’t the others experience it? Why can’t we just _tell_ them so that we don’t have to do it alone?”  
  
The Receiver offers him a small, sad smile. “It is beyond the scope of what they know, Thomas. Even if you tried to explain, they wouldn’t understand. No one can truly know how deep their emotions run until they’ve been put into a situation that shows them. And this community of ours…” She sighs again. She sighs a _lot_ , in Thomas’s experience. It makes her sound tired. “In this community of ours, we are not given a terrible amount of opportunity to see just what we are capable of feeling.”  
  
He thinks about how he used to be before becoming the Receiver, and Thomas can’t help but agree.  
  
But he doubts. Silently, he doubts.  
  
[---]  
  
It almost seems as though Minho begins going out of his way to see Thomas after that first incident.  
  
He just happens to be near or around the path that Thomas takes to his dwelling after his sessions with the Receiver. During Recreation time, he seeks Thomas out and asks if he wants to do something together, or with their other friends.  
  
Sometimes Thomas agrees. Other times, like on the days when the Receiver has given him some painful memories (broken bones, punctured lungs, terrible illnesses, and all of the emotions that came with them), he declines.  
  
“I’m-” Thomas says on those days, and has to catch himself because he has promised not to lie to his friend. “-I _will_ be fine. I have to go.”  
  
And every single time, he can feel Minho watching him as he goes.  
  
[---]  
  
Thomas doesn’t know which he hates more:  
  
The physical pain, the burning agony of the rending of muscle and skin and bone, burns and bruises, blood and bodily fluids, all tortures that make him scream and cry and _writhe_ despite it not being real…  
  
…Or the mental and emotional pain of loss, of injustice, of grief; of watching loved ones suffer, or disappear, or _die_ and feeling the swirling emotions surrounding it, like guilt and anger and overwhelming _sadness_.  
  
He thinks of that boy and his sister, and remembers how little the physical pain had mattered to him in competition with her loss.  
  
“Physical wounds can heal,” The Receiver says. “But emotions leave a much deeper impression. When a person is hurt in their mind-” She taps her temple indicatively, “-it is an invisible wound, one that can’t so simply be treated.”  
  
He has to agree.  
  
Thomas would prefer any amount of physical pain to never seeing his parents, or sister, or friends again.  
  
[---]  
  
That being said, it is still not easy to endure.  
  
He must be a sight, limping back to his dwelling every day. But no one stares, either out of respect for his position or because they know that there is pain associated with his assignment.  
  
Except, of course, for one.  
  
“Do you need help, Thomas?”  
  
Today had brought several memories, one of the last being of a man falling down a flight of stairs. Some painful memories were simply shown to teach Thomas the extent and range of painful experiences; in this case, the Receiver had had a point. The stairs had been poorly constructed, which was why the man had fallen.  
  
“Wisdom through suffering” indeed.  
  
The man in the memory had survived the fall with a few broken ribs, a sprained ankle, and a cracked skull. The Receiver had only permitted Thomas to leave when the dizziness from the last injury had faded. That being said, the journey to his dwelling has been an arduous process.  
  
“I can make it on my own,” Thomas says with a shaky smile. The lingering pain in his ribs is still quite significant, and makes him want to cry out. “But thanks.”  
  
Minho sighs. “I know you can’t tell me about what you and the Receiver do,” He says, and sounds frustrated. “but can’t you at least tell me why you can’t-?”  
  
As he speaks, he suddenly moves very close to Thomas to avoid bumping into someone else on the path. In his attempt to not be knocked over, Thomas steps quickly- and very, very _wrongly_ \- on his still-sore ankle, making him gasp out loud and grab Minho’s arm in a reflexive motion.  
  
“I apologize,” Thomas croaks, releasing his tight grip on Minho’s forearm after a moment or so.  
  
“I accept, and apologize as well. That was my fault.” And again, Minho doesn’t really seem to be troubled by the fact that Thomas has touched him. Usually, Teresa and Newt and Alby all look at least surprised when Thomas forgets himself in that way.  
  
“Minho,” Thomas lowers his voice, despite no one else really being close enough to hear them. “Does it bother you when I touch you?”  
  
Minho shrugs. Shrugging is frowned upon; it isn’t as precise as their community’s language, spoken or not, would like. “It’s odd, but it doesn’t bother me. You’ve always done it. I’m used to it by now, in a way.”  
  
He shouldn’t be used to it. He should be encouraging Thomas to remember the rules, just as Thomas’s parents do.  
  
In that instant, Thomas wonders something else. “I enjoy physical contact,” He says, continuing to speak quietly. “That’s why I forget so easily.” He looks right at Minho as he asks, “Do you? Like it?”  
  
Minho is quiet for a long moment, and then says back, “I certainly don’t dislike it. I’m just not accustomed to it.” He stops, glances around, and then slips Thomas an almost mischievous smile that hearkens back to when they were children. “And if I’m not bothered by it, and you’re not bothered by it, I don’t see why we have to apologize for touching every now and then. So long as no one sees, that is.”  
  
Thomas smiles, and love- yes, he is pretty sure it is love- rises in his chest.  
  
[---]  
  
Thomas thinks of what he’s learned.  
  
He thinks of the vast amount of colors and shades of colors, the range of human experience and life. He thinks about animals and automobiles and pain and pleasure, and he thinks about all of the things their community lacks.  
  
He thinks about his future as a Receiver, containing all of those memories and counseling the Elders on how to operate the community as best as they can. He thinks about all of the pain the Receiver contains, and how he too will one day have to contain it all on his own, along with everything else.  
  
He thinks about the people around him not knowing, not truly understanding the heart-rending grief that they are capable of experiencing, not seeing the bright colors of the world and knowing that once upon a time, they could have lived lives where they _chose_ things like their professions and their clothes and their spouses and the amount of children they could have.  
  
He thinks about a world with less rules and regulations, where there was no set recreation time, where a person could go anywhere in the _world_ that they wanted to and speak to different people in different places with different languages and customs and belief. He thinks about how large that world was, and how small this one is.  
  
He thinks about Minho, who follows a lot of rules but still bends and breaks plenty of the smaller, sillier ones every now and then because that’s who he is. He thinks about Minho’s arms around him, and how good it felt to be held. He thinks about the good memories he’s received and thinks about how wonderful it might be to share them with Minho.  
  
He also thinks about the bad ones, the ones that sometimes wake him up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat.  
  
And in those moments, however torn he is about choice and freedom, Thomas thinks that he is happy to take on the burden of these memories if it means that the people around him don’t have to suffer through them.  
  
Especially Minho.  
  
[---]  
  
But those memories are a burden.  
  
As time goes on, Thomas sympathizes with the Receiver more and more. He knows that these memories fade from her mind when she gives them to him, and in a way, he is grateful for that. He is glad to relieve her of some of this weight, however unpleasant it is to take it on himself.  
  
Others are beginning to notice the changes in him, though. Minho, clearly, is the first; he’s been paying the most attention. But the others begin to notice too. They don’t say it so directly, but Thomas can see the confusion and concern in their eyes.  
  
“Are you feeling all right, Thomas?” Alby asks one day.  
  
“Yes, I’m fine. Just tired.” Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas sees Minho lift his head. He hopes that Minho won’t say anything to Alby, won’t tell him that Thomas is permitted to lie to those around him. And he doesn’t, at least not right then- he goes back to fiddling with the handlebar on his bicycle, and brings it up later on their way home.  
  
“You do look tired,” Minho says. “And you don’t smile, or laugh, as much as you used to.” He sounds a little sad.  
  
“It’s not pleasant work that we do.” Thomas mumbles.  
  
“I still don’t understand what you could be doing that could be so… _Anything_ that you couldn’t tell anyone else about it.” It is indeed rare for anything to be truly secret in their community, where people do not lie (though Thomas has started to question that more and more) and everyone’s assignment is known to the community.  
  
In that moment, temptation strikes. Thomas thinks that he can tell, _wants_ to tell Minho, and really, what harm can come from it? If the Receiver is right and the other members of their community cannot feel emotions the same way she and Thomas do, if they cannot truly be affected by them without experiencing them, then what harm will it do if he tells Minho what he’s been doing?  
  
Minho won’t tell. He’s too smart. He undoubtedly knows that there would be consequences for this infraction. And more importantly, he might be the only person Thomas knows that won’t _judge_ him for breaking it.  
  
He can trust Minho.  
  
Thomas finally breaks down, and breaks that rule that he is most definitely not supposed to break.  
  
“Minho, what would you say if I told you the world used to be very, very different than it is now?”  
  
[---]  
  
“Even if you tried, Thomas,” The Receiver had said, “They wouldn’t understand. It’s not the world they know, and without allowing them to experience it on their own, they simply can’t understand.”  
  
Thomas doesn’t want to believe that.  
  
He _can’t_ believe that his friends are unable to feel beyond the shallow pool of emotions that they’ve been allowed throughout their lives.  
  
Especially not Minho, whose anger breaks through every now and then in a very physical way, and who laughs so deeply.  
  
He can’t believe it.  
  
He _won’t_.  
  
[---]  
  
He tries so hard to explain, but it really is difficult to put into words.  
  
Thomas tells him about colors, but with no way to give an example, he fails spectacularly.  
  
“It’s- it’s like a texture, but you can’t feel it!” He says, trying to keep his voice down despite his frustration. “You can only see it. The sky is blue. The grass is green. I don’t…” He slaps a hand over his face.  
  
Minho chuckles. “Calm down. It’s not that important.”  
  
“But it is! It makes the world look completely different.”  
  
“Different how?”  
  
Thomas gestures hopelessly for a moment. “ _Good_ different. It looks brighter. Objects are more interesting, unique… I can’t explain.”  
  
“Can’t you show me?” Minho at least sounds interested in the idea, and not just at laughing at how frustrated Thomas is.  
  
“I don’t know how. I only know because of what the Receiver shows me, and I think you have to be… Whatever it is we are in order to see what we do.” Thomas sighs in defeat. “But I wish I could show you.”  
  
Minho nods, barely suppressing a smile. “Okay, so these “colors” are important to you. But why is it _important_ that I see them? What difference does it make if they look more unique? Or interesting? I don’t need to think an apple is interesting to eat it.”  
  
Thomas has to concede that point. He thinks for a moment, drawing on the memories that he’s acquired- and after a year with the Receiver, he has amassed an impressive amount. “There used to be more than one kind of apple, you know.”  
  
Minho raises an eyebrow at that. “Really?”  
  
“Yes, _really_. There were ones like we have now, but there were also ones that were smaller, or rounder, or softer. They were different colors, too. If you could see their colors, you could decide whether or not you wanted a certain type of apple.”  
  
Minho is quiet, thinking that over. “I could know the difference without the color. You just said that they had different sizes.”  
  
“But some looked similar enough that you might not know the difference until you tasted it. With color, you could immediately know which ones would taste a certain way.”  
  
“True,” Minho admits, “But we don’t have different apples now, do we?”  
  
Thomas nods heavily. “No, we don’t. We don’t have a lot of variety now.” He pauses. “We used to, though. There was a time when you could choose a lot of things for yourself, without the guidance of the Elders or anyone else.”  
  
“Such as?”  
  
“Well…” Thomas searches for an example. “…People used to be able to choose their own jobs. If they were good at it, they kept it. If they weren’t, they had to leave and find a different one. Sometimes people had many jobs in their lifetimes.”  
  
“That sounds incredibly dangerous and impractical,” Minho says, and Thomas’s heart sinks a little in his chest. But then Minho smiles and says, “It also sounds like fun. I wouldn’t mind being able to try a different occupation. The Department of Justice can get a bit boring every now and then.”  
  
There’s something there.  
  
Maybe it’s wishful thinking on Thomas’s part. Maybe he wants to believe that Minho is starting to see the benefits of a world where people could do more of what they wanted to do.  
  
But in that moment, it looks like he _does_.  
  
[---]  
  
There have been far more memories with a point, lately.  
  
The Receiver gives him memories of mistakes- some with serious outcomes, some relatively inconsequential. Sometimes it is a bad political move: A leader would speak poorly of another, and tensions would arise. Sometimes it is an everyday mistake: Someone over-watered a garden, and all of their plants were ruined.  
  
Naturally, many of these mistakes involve painful consequences. Sometimes they end in war and death for many, and other times they end in pain for only the person who has made the mistake in the first place.  
  
The Receiver is trying to be careful, and Thomas appreciates that. There is never a day now where he does not experience at least one painful memory, but she tries very hard to spread out those memories that bring severe pain, emotional or physical.  
  
Today is one of those days.  
  
Thomas knows this memory is important, that the memory of one’s arm being all but crushed because of poor planning in the process of constructing a building is vital information to consider. He doesn’t need to be told that this knowledge will help the builders in the community prevent future potential accidents.  
  
None of this changes the fact that having his arm crushed is one of the worst instances of physical pain Thomas has experienced thus far.  
  
The pain is so severe that nausea rises in Thomas’s throat, and it does not leave when the memory dissipates.  
  
The Receiver must have felt the same thing when she received the memory, because she goes and grabs him a wastebasket right before he vomits.  
  
It’s the first time Thomas has ever vomited. He has been nauseous before, but the methods for treating it are so effective that he has never actually vomited. It is, unquestionably, the most disgusting thing he has experienced outside of a memory in his _life_.  
  
The urge to empty his stomach doesn’t leave until the pain has lessened somewhat. And in the meantime, the Receiver gently runs a hand through his hair, along his back, trying to comfort him. For the first time, Thomas thinks that maybe she might share his view on the no-touching rule.  
  
Eventually, he feels better, and she pats his back. “It’s all right, Thomas. You can go home now.”  
   
[---]  
   
“You don’t look injured.”  
  
Minho frowns as he examines Thomas’s arm. Thomas shakes his head. “I’m not actually hurt. I experience it as a memory, and the pain just… Sticks.” He rubs his eyes.  
  
“I don’t- Oh, I meant to ask you this before, but why doesn’t the Receiver give you medication for the pain?”  
  
Thomas still isn’t feeling well. He walks slowly, trying to agitate his stomach as little as possible. “I’m not permitted to take pain medication. I have to experience it. It gives us… Knowledge. It helps us understand the seriousness of the situations where the pain is occurring. That’s how I understand it.” He comes to a stop. “I need to sit down.”  
  
Between his stomach and his arm, Thomas is- as he once heard the Receiver put it- nearing the end of his rope. He knows that she tries not to overwhelm him, but it happens. And on those occasions, Thomas knows that he is feeling true misery.  
  
Minho guides him to a bench, and they sit. For the moment, no one is looking and he sets a hand on top of Thomas’s. “I wish that I could help. I don’t like seeing you in pain.”  
  
For some reason, that brings tears to Thomas’s eyes. It doesn’t lessen the nausea, it doesn’t lessen the lingering pain, but there is something comforting, something very _good_ about Minho’s concern.  
  
Thomas takes a deep breath, glances around, and then edges a little closer to Minho. “You are doing something.” He says, shutting his eyes. “I’m glad you’re here.”  
   
[---]  
   
“If I were not required to give you these memories, I wouldn’t.”  
  
Thomas is tired; very, very tired. And judging from what his mother had said that morning, and what the Receiver had said when he arrived, he looked like it too. Sickly, even.  
  
“I know that they take a toll on you.”  
  
“I know you know,” Thomas says, rubbing his eyes. “Sometimes I wonder how you’ve managed to hold them for all these years and not…”  
  
“Go insane?” The Receiver queries, and Thomas nods. “The good memories are a nice offset. And the idea that I am helping to prevent further suffering is most certainly an incentive.” She crosses her legs and folds her hands on her lap. “I’ve lead a relatively solitary life, Thomas. What we experience sets us apart from the rest. Your friends and family have, perhaps, noticed a change in you?”  
  
Thomas nods. “Most of them.”  
  
“Have any of them distanced themselves from you?”  
  
“A few.” He hasn’t spoken to Alby or Teresa in weeks. Newt strikes up conversation every now and then, but it’s limited.  
  
“Have any of them maintained normal contact with you?”  
  
“Yes. Minho, he-” Thomas stops and carefully considers what he’s about to say before he says it. He doesn’t want Minho- or himself- to get into trouble. “…he’s concerned about me. He’s stayed pretty close.”  
  
The Receiver smiles, and it is one of the most genuine, not-tired, not-sad smiles that he’s ever seen on her. “That’s excellent. He must be a good friend indeed.” The smile flickers. “You haven’t told him what goes on during these sessions, have you?”  
  
Thomas shakes his head. “No.”  
  
He doesn’t speak too quickly, tries to keep his voice the same tone as all the others. Thomas thinks that he sounds pretty convincing, all things considered. The Receiver does not linger on it, and he thinks that she accepts the answer.  
  
But he also knows that she has probably seen memories upon memories of people who have lied far better than he, and thinks that maybe she might doubt just a little bit.  
   
[---]  
   
Thomas has never underestimated Minho before.  
  
Minho was assigned to the Department of Justice because he is brilliant. Despite his temper, despite his tendency to slip and slide around the rules, Minho was always right up at the top of their class with Harriet and Teresa, always had top grades. He is intelligent, he is clever, and above all else, he is _persistent_.  
  
It shouldn’t surprise him when Minho figures out a pattern in Thomas’s sessions with the Receiver, shouldn’t surprise him that Minho has figured out that severe memories of pain are usually given every two weeks on the same day. That much Thomas knows to expect from Minho.  
  
What he does _not_ expect is for Minho to approach him after one such session (a gunshot wound this time, to the gut) and say, “I have something for you.”  
  
Thomas looks down as he offers his hand.  
  
It is medication- _Pain_ medication, judging from the size and shape.  
  
Minho has broken a rule for him. It’s a _serious_ rule, and he has knowingly and willingly broken it. This… This is not something Thomas would have expected from Minho, especially given his occupation. He should- and _does_ \- know better.  
  
But here they are.  
  
Thomas stares at him. “Minho… I can’t- I can’t take this. You know that.”  
  
“I know you can’t. Do it anyway.”  
  
“Are you-?” Thomas quickly hushes himself. “Are you out of your mind? You aren’t supposed to order medication for people outside of your family unit.”  
  
“I didn’t,” Minho says. “I ordered them from myself. And took them myself.” He looks at Thomas pointedly, and then lowers his voice even further. “I don’t want to watch you suffer. And you are suffering, Thomas. I can see it. You’ve had enough pain, haven’t you? I think you’ve got an idea as to how horrible it is.”  
  
Thomas shakes his head helplessly. “You’ll get into trouble.”  
  
“I don’t…” Minho trails off, looking curiously surprised at himself. “I don’t care. I actually don’t. I can get into trouble. I don’t mind.”  
  
Thomas feels his eyes burning again.  
  
He takes the pills. Not because he can’t handle the pain, not because he needs them, but because Minho has already committed this infraction and he might as well. Thomas is concerned by Minho’s defiance, but there is also something wonderful in the idea that he was willing to break a rule for him. This is not a small thing that Minho has done.  
  
Maybe it isn’t perfect, maybe Minho doesn’t feel it quite the same way that Thomas does, but in that moment, Thomas is quite certain that he now knows what it’s like to be loved by someone else.  
   
[---]  
   
Thomas knows that, in the past, people could choose their spouses and romantic partners.  
  
And now, he finds himself wondering what his life could be like if he was allowed to choose Minho.  
   
[---]  
   
Irony has always been a concept in their community.  
  
And so of course, Thomas looks back on that moment of bliss and considers how natural it is that everything went, as the Receiver might put it, downhill from there.  
   
[---]  
   
Thomas does not see Minho on his way back from the Receiver’s dwelling one day, and something feels wrong.  
  
This one deviation from their usual routine is enough to concern him. And today, after a day of relatively good memories, he has the will and the energy to find out why.  
  
He speaks to the woman behind the front desk at the Department of Justice, and asks if Minho has finished for the day; she says, after glancing at their sign-in sheet, that he did not come to the department that day.  
  
The feeling gets worse. It almost feels like nausea, and Thomas has a word for it- _dread_.  
  
If Minho is not at the Department of Justice, then he should be at his dwelling. Thomas goes there next.  
  
When he knocks, it is Minho’s father who answers the door. He seems surprised to see Thomas there. “Hello, Receiver.”  
  
Sometimes, Thomas forgets the place he now holds in their community. In this case, though, it is beneficial, because he can forgo the rules regarding this particular brand of rudeness and ask a question. “Hello. Did Minho- Is he here? I haven’t seen him today.”  
  
The look in the man’s eyes makes Thomas feel a little sick.  
  
“Minho…” He begins, and his face is almost like stone with how serious it is. “He has made several missteps in the last year, the kind that the Department of Justice could not ignore now that he is an adult.”  
  
He looks at Thomas so seriously and judgmentally that, with a horrible feeling, Thomas knows that he must know about the medication- or at least that Minho’s infraction had something to do with him.  
  
Even worse, Thomas also knows what’s coming next.  
  
“Minho was Released this morning.”  
   
[---]  
   
Panic rages in Thomas’s head and heart as he makes his way back to the Receiver’s dwelling. It makes sense that he hadn’t known about Minho’s Release; only family units are immediately informed of an impending Release, not friends or coworkers. Word spreads to them in its own time, in its own way. And families do not often broadcast it more than they have to; Release that does not come from old age or inadequacy as an infant is shameful.  
  
But one of the most shocking aspects of this is the idea that Minho had been making “missteps” for the past year- but wouldn’t he have mentioned it if he had been reprimanded? Had he been too embarrassed to bring it up? Had he been too concerned about Thomas to mention it?  
  
Thomas feels even worse now, because really, this is probably his fault. He is almost certain that the incident with the medication is what’s brought this about, and that means that it is his fault for telling Minho about his sessions, his fault for allowing Minho to be too close to him, his fault for allowing Minho to care so much that he would want to break a rule for him-  
  
“Receiver,” Thomas croaks after he’s thrown open the door. His throat feels tight, and the tears in his eyes are finally starting to leak.  
  
“Thomas,” The Receiver looks up from the book on her lap, and then quickly stands up. “What’s going on? Are you all right?”  
  
“Minho was released this morning,” Thomas blurts out once he reaches the bottom of the stairs. “My best friend, Minho. He’s the one that- I’ve told you about him. It’s all my fault, I- I told him about our sessions. I lied to you. I wanted to see if I could make him understand, and I think that I did, because he-” His voice hitches. “He broke the rules, he helped _me_ break them, and he brought me medication when he saw I was in pain. I’m so sorry, Receiver.”  
  
But she doesn’t say anything, still staring at him blankly, and so Thomas continues.  
  
“But I’ve got to go find him! I need to make sure he’s okay! I mean, this place isn’t perfect, but at least it’s safe, and he’s never been outside of the Community before and he doesn’t know what it can be like, and I-” Thomas shuts his eyes and shakes his head. “…I love him. And I don’t want him to get hurt.”  
  
The Receiver watches him for a moment longer. As she does, her expression slowly moves from blankness to one of pure, utter _sadness_ , and she shakes her head.  
  
“Oh, my poor boy.” She says. “My poor, poor boy.”  
   
[---]  
   
Thomas spends four hours at the Receiver’s that day.  
  
The first five minutes, he watches a video feed of an old man being Released.  
  
He spends the remaining time screaming.  
   
[---]  
   
The colors remain, but they are dulled.  
   
[---]  
   
Thomas is old and gray, and is training his own successor.  
  
“Don’t hold back,” The girl, Rachel, says (of course she would after two weeks of music and color and everything bright and happy).  
  
“I know there are bad things you have to show me,” She says.  
  
She has no idea.  
  
“I can handle it.” She says.  
  
But she can’t, and he knows she can’t.  
  
It isn’t for another two years, when he is a lot closer to death and she is a little more  inured to the pain brought by war and famine and hate, that Thomas allows himself to let her have that memory, the one when he knew what had happened to Minho.  
  
“This is a new pain, one you haven’t felt yet,” He warns before.  
  
[---]  
  
He lets it go, and would feel better for it if he were not inflicting it on someone else.  
  
[---]  
  
“What was that?” Rachel asks, after, with tears pouring down her face.  
  
Thomas feels them burning in his eyes as well.  
  
“Love,” He says. “And the pain of losing it.”  
   
-End


End file.
